And opened too the destined door
Thro' which new croud of blessings pour.
Britannia, see! thy Son extends "
His free, his Patriot arms,
To welcome thine and Virtue's friends;
See to thy fond embrace he bends,
Just to thy honest pride, and conscious of thy charms,
GAUL'S pensive Genius heard him sing
And breathed the hopeless sigh;
Bold Prussia's eagle, towering high,
Clapped loud his vigorous wing;
While happy Britons hailed a British king!
O more than Albion's hope, to Thee
Ingenuous science bends the knee.
Chaste Isis, conscious of her claim,
Fears not to tell her faithful flame;
And pleased that every muse approves
What she so well so warmly loves,
Joins in her wreath each flower that glows
Where Cam's Pierian fountain flows.
O born a blessing unconfin'd!
The muses of yon hostile shore
Your happy auspices implore,
By you protected trust the waves and wind.
But see where dove-eyed Peace from heaven looks down, And longs to bind your envied crown
With olives doubly blest;
While she prepares o'er sea and land
To wave her bliss-dispensing hand,
Rejoic'd she sees Britannia's throne
Pure Virtue's refuge—who alone
Builds in her bosom calm, sweet Peace's halcyon nest.
THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF ABINGDON,
of Magdalen College, Oxford.
YES, I, too, mark with anxious eye
The world's great pageant passing by!
Breathless I catch the mighty name
That swells, that fills, the trump of fame;
On wings of speed, with eye of fire,
He hastes-I shudder, and admire—
The battle roars, the day is won-
Exulting fortune crowns her son:
Sickening I turn on yonder plain
To mourn the widows and the slain;
To mourn the woes, the crimes of man,
To search in vain the eternal plan,
In outraged nature claim a part,
And ponder, desolate of heart.
But, restless long, the wanderer Thought
Returns at length with comfort fraught,
And thus, with air benign, serene,
Would moralize the mortal scene,
Weep'st thou the dead? and who are they?
Those powerless limbs, that senseless clay?
Weep'st thou the dead? and canst thou read
The spirit's doom, the spirit's meed?
Go, fold thy arms, and bow thy head
In reverence o'er their lowly bed,
Then lift thine eyes, and calmly trust
The Wise, the Merciful, the Just.
The widow'd?-yes, they claim a tear,
Yet comfort meets us even here;
'Tis but the fate of one short span
That lies within the gripe of man;
Whate'er of joy the oppressor steals,
Whate'er of woe the victim feels,
The lapse of ages in their course
Shall bring a compensating force,
Succeeding worlds atone the past,
And strike our balance right at last.
-Unclench thy hand, subdue thine eye,
Recall those curses deep and high;
Tame thy rude breast's vindictive swell,
Nor rave of everlasting hell!
"I hate the oppressor!" say'st thou-hate
A poor blind instrument of fate?
Does not the tyrant's self obey
Some feller tyrant's lawless sway?
See Anger goad his fiery breast,
Remorse, Suspicion, kill his rest;
And rather say-" Thou suffering soul,
Doom'd for a time, beneath the pole,
In guilt, in fear, short breath to fetch,
A hated, solitary wretch
May Death his friendly stroke extend,
And soon thy hard commission end,
And bear thee hence, O sweet release!
To taste of innocence and peace."
For human woe, for human weal,
Man will, man must, man ought to feel;
And while they feel, the untutored crowd,
With clamours vehement and loud,
Will rend the skies, and wildly trust
God shall avenge, for God is just!
They see not a resistless might
Still guide us on, and guide us right;
Foreseen our passions' utmost force,
Foredoom'd our most eccentric course,
We seem to will, nor cease to be
Slaves of a strong necessity.
This knows the sage, and calmly sees
Vice, matter's weakness or disease ;
The eternal Mind, the first great Cause,
A power immense, but bound by laws,
Wise all its ways, contriving still
The most of good, the least of ill,
Redressing all it can redress,
And turn'd to pity and to bless.
Touch'd by this faith, his mellowing mind,
From terror, and from wrath refined
Light from the scene upsprings, and wrought
To tender extacy of thought,
Sees a just God's impartial smile
Relieve the opprest, restore the vile,
Pour good on all-with joy, with love,
He looks around, he looks above;
And views no more with anxious eye
The world's great pageant passing by.
FROM THE PERSIAN OF SADI.
SHIELD, O my son! the lowly :-'tis from them
The mightiest monarch draws his diadem;
The people are the root, the race of kings
The tree, that thence in graceful foliage springs;
And mark this precept to thy latest hour,
That from the root the tree derives its power.
These lines are part of a speech supposed to be spoken by king Nushirvan to his son Hormuz, just before the death of the former.
WITH rapid prow the buoyant vessels glide,
And cut the glassy surface of the tide;
The glassy surface, white with foam no more,
But smoothly flowing to the level shore,
Or settled in a deep and calm repose,
Unruffled by the breeze that scarcely blows.
For now, the swallow's voice, heard faintly clear,
Spring's gracious zephyr wafts along the air:
Beneath the pent-house roof's embowering shade
The amorous bird her clay-built nest has laid,
Securely guarded for her callow brood:
The cricket has his merry note renewed;
And early foliage bursts through every grove;
And roses open at the touch of love.
Now set your anchors free-spread every sail,
And loose your cordage to the friendly gale!
Quit, quit the port, where the long winter's day
Has past, inglorious, unimprov'd away!
Now tempt again the fortune of the wave,
Seek other shores, and new adventures brave!
So may the gods of trade reward your toil
With every bounty shower'd on every soil,
And guide your barks triumphant o'er the main,
Laden with plenty, to their homes again.
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